Chapter 252

Chapter 252

The word and concept of instinct are familiar. However, there are few occasions to ponder them deeply.  

For intelligent beings, instinct is both a beloved and detested companion—a double-edged sword.  

Creatures that lack intelligence, commonly referred to as "beasts," are incapable of adapting to ever-changing environments. When faced with environmental pressures beyond their genetic limits, they are quickly crushed and driven to extinction.  

But intelligent beings are different. In the face of environmental changes that could wipe out a species in a single generation, intelligence serves as a tool for survival.  

Our ancestors endured the harsh glacial ice ages—where even fur-covered beasts perished—by using nothing more than fire and clothing. And their distant descendants, in order to survive on the barren Planet Arc, abandoned flesh and blood, replacing their bodies with machines.  

Furthermore, the immense power accumulated through intelligence surpassed even the gravitational pull of planets.  

We are the very apes who acquired the genetic mutation of intelligence and now traverse the stars.  

And alongside those apes were snakes, zebras, cattle, lions, and the like. A coexistence impossible among mere beasts.  

Humans, Tajirunese, Equessians, Tarfa, and Crawlers were able to form societies and live together… because they all had acquired the mutation of intelligence. The degree of intelligence varied among them, but it was enough to overcome the differences in nature and instincts imprinted upon each species.  

However, intelligence alone is not enough to survive.  

Instinct is what creates the differences and individuality among species.  

By merging deeply ingrained instincts accumulated at the genetic level with the mutation of intelligence, intelligent beings were able to seize explosive power.  

Instinct is the pigment, and intelligence is the brushstroke. No matter how much effort one exerts, they cannot change the inherent color of their pigment.  

Yes, instinct. We cannot abandon our instincts. That was true for me, and it was the same for Boyan.  

The site of the gunfire was getting closer. Yanaka was falling behind me.  

Step, step.  

I stopped running and slowed to a walk. The scent of blood and gunpowder filled the air.  

Flicker, flicker.  

A broken light flickered, alternately illuminating and concealing the alleyway.  

"Ku, kuuugh, aahhh!"  

The screams were close. Someone was running from the opposite direction. I narrowed my eyes.  

The one running and screaming was a human male. His right arm had been ripped off.  

I described it as "ripped off" because that was precisely what had happened. It hadn't been cut or broken. The torn flesh was ragged and horrifying—something that only happens when a limb is violently torn from a living body.  

As if it had been devoured by a beast.  

The man saw me and collapsed to the ground. Blood poured from his mutilated shoulder.

"Se, sir. P-please, h-help me. I-I'll r-reward you."  

"I need to know the situation before deciding whether to help or not."  

I examined the man's appearance. He was certainly not a normal person. The acrid stench of drugs clung to his clothes and hair, overpowering even the smell of blood. He was either a drug addict or a dealer.  

No, a dealer. Despite his severe injury, he had not succumbed to panic but instead pleaded for help with remarkable composure.  

"A C-Crawler. A Crawler's gone berserk!" he stammered. "P-please, just get me to a hospital first, I beg you…"  

"Even a Crawler wouldn’t start attacking for no reason. You didn’t provoke it, did you?"  

I spoke calmly.  

"It started picking a fight over nothing first!" he insisted. "But more importantly, hngh, p-please, help stop the bleeding…"  

The man clutched his shoulder desperately. It was nearly impossible for someone missing an arm to apply proper pressure to a wound.  

Tap, tap.  

Yanaka arrived a moment later, slightly out of breath. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene.  

"What happened? Why is his arm…?"  

"You’ve learned basic first aid, right? Stop the bleeding so he doesn’t die from excessive blood loss."  

I grabbed the man by the collar and tossed him at Yanaka’s feet.  

She recoiled, her face contorting.  

"Me? Why should I?"  

"If you don’t want Boyan to become a murderer, then do it."  

Yanaka's expression shifted instantly. Her face, which had been twisted in discomfort, turned sharp and venomous as she glared at me.  

"What do you mean by that? Are you saying Boyan did this?"  

"I'm saying it's a possibility. And my instincts are usually right."  

Yanaka tore a strip from her sleeve, fashioned it into a makeshift tourniquet, and wrapped it tightly around the man's shoulder, securing it just below his armpit.  

I continued walking inside. The sounds of a fight reached my ears, followed by two more gunshots—loud enough that even Yanaka would have heard them.  

"Grk… grrk…"  

A deep, guttural growl—something no human vocal cords could produce—rumbled through the air.  

"Kyaaaaah!"  

The cries of Crawlers. More than one. Their distinct wails overlapped.  

A building with shattered windows and a broken-down door came into view. It seemed to have been a front for an illegal drug operation, complete with a storefront. Judging by that, the place was likely run by a gang.  

‘Honestly, a gang-controlled operation is still better than some random street dealer with no accountability.’  

I stepped through the open door. Inside was utter chaos.  

Four people lay sprawled on the floor, covered in blood, groaning in pain. Three others stood, locked in a savage fight, eyes filled with murderous intent.  

And one of those three… was Boyan.

Boyan, clad in a hooded jacket, stood atop a table, glaring at his enemies. Judging by the holes in his clothes, it seemed he had taken a few bullets.  

"Krhh!"  

A raw, primal scent—like the stench of wild blood—seemed to emanate from Boyan. His innate violence had awakened.  

Blood dripped from his hands and claws.  

‘Did he take down these armed gang members by himself?’  

It was likely they had let their guard down, but Boyan’s combat prowess was still impressive.  

Two gang members remained. One was a Crawler, and the other was a gun-wielding Tarfa. There was something unsettling about seeing a blue-skinned kid with a cigarette in his mouth, aiming a gun.  

‘A Tarfa… in a gang?’  

It was an unusual combination. Not impossible, though. The Tarfa species were generally known to be scholarly and gentle, but in the end, intelligence varied greatly among individuals. There were bound to be violent and ruthless Tarfa as well.  

Creak.  

The Tarfa had his sights on Boyan. But with Boyan leaping between the walls, ceiling, and table, keeping him in the crosshairs was proving difficult.  

I grabbed a chair near the doorway and hurled it.  

Whoosh! Crack!  

The chair smashed into the Tarfa gang member’s body, shattering on impact. Instantly, all attention turned to me.  

"Lu…"  

Boyan’s eyes widened in surprise.  

In that split second, the Crawler gang member lunged at him.  

Ignoring them both, I strode toward the staggering Tarfa.  

‘Damn it, why do all Tarfa look like kids?’  

No matter how much he scowled, the species' inherently childlike features stood out. It made resorting to violence feel unpleasant.  

That hesitation gave him time to recover and aim his gun at me.  

"You… y-you bastard! That hurt, you son of a bitch! Die! Just die!"  

Thankfully, his foul mouth eased any lingering guilt.  

Screeech—  

He pulled the trigger.  

To my perception, the motion was agonizingly slow.  

I moved before he could even fire.  

Crack!  

Grabbing his face, I slammed him into the ground. A sickening crunch echoed as his skull fractured in both the front and back. Without immediate treatment, he would die.  

Leaving the incapacitated Tarfa behind, I turned around.  

"Kyarrrh!"  

Boyan and the Crawler gang member were locked in a brutal brawl, exchanging blows with fists and kicks. Each impact resounded with a harsh, meaty thud.  

Crunch! Thud!  

Boyan's head snapped back as he took a hit to the face. But his survival instincts kicked in—he raised his leg and aimed a vicious kick straight at the Crawler gang member’s groin.

Boyan, lacking in technical skill, was being pushed back.  

I didn't intervene. Part of me wanted to see his potential, and based on my vague intuition, stepping in wouldn't have been the right choice.  

‘Was Boyan always this big?’  

It wasn’t my imagination. I had a sharp eye for detail, and in the time I hadn't seen him, Boyan had grown. I couldn’t judge their biology and development by human standards.  

‘It’s not just his size. His body isn’t just bulkier—his muscles must be packed tight.’  

A Crawler's muscles naturally develop just through daily activity. They lack the gene that suppresses muscle growth for energy conservation. From their primitive ancestors to now, Crawlers had always been apex predators of their ecosystems, leaving behind the genetic evidence of a species that never had to worry about scarcity.  

‘The difference between species is inherently unfair.’  

Even with intense training and drug enhancement, humans could barely develop half the muscle mass of a Crawler. They, on the other hand, gained their overwhelming strength just by existing.  

Now, two embodiments of violence itself clashed, throwing fists at each other. Neither showed any sign of pain—there wasn’t so much as a wince.  

Instead, their faces twisted into fierce grins, as if reveling in the fight. Boyan was no exception.  

"Kyaaaaaaah—!!"  

Boyan, momentarily overwhelmed, let out a piercing roar and clenched his fists. His muscles seemed to swell.  

‘Go, Boyan. Let your instincts loose.’  

Instincts cannot be suppressed indefinitely. If an overflowing instinct is forced into the vessel of intelligence, even that vessel will eventually shatter. Just as instincts have limits, so too does intelligence.  

Splat!  

Blood spurted like a squirt of water from Boyan’s wounds, his rising blood pressure forcing it out.  

Ting!  

The bullets lodged in his body were pushed out by his swelling muscles and dropped to the floor.  

Boyan’s father, Regor, had been an exceptional warrior. That legacy lived on in Boyan’s body.  

Vwoom!  

With no finesse—only raw strength—Boyan swung a brutal punch at the Crawler gang member.  

The Crawler raised his arms to block, but Boyan overpowered him.  

Thud!  

The gang member’s arms were knocked aside, leaving him open. Boyan wasted no time.  

He clenched his other fist and drove it into the Crawler’s chest.  

Thud! Crack!  

Flesh crumpled, bones snapped.  

The Crawler crashed into a table and collapsed, coughing up blood as he gasped for breath.  

‘Beyond the unfairness of species differences… there's an even greater unfairness between individuals.’

Even among those of the same kind, there are insurmountable walls. The blueprint of one’s genes is absolute. No amount of effort can activate a gene that simply does not exist.  

‘And Boyan was born with exceptional Crawler genes. A raw gem. Now that he’s reached his growth phase, it’s becoming even more apparent.’  

The defeated Crawler gang member was surely realizing this far more desperately than I was.  

‘Boyan is a specimen capable of becoming a leader.’  

More than anger or resentment, the defeated Crawler would feel the urge to submit to Boyan.  

In Crawler society, the strong become the leaders. Following the strong is their fate, their instinct.  

"A-ah, krrk… ugh… o-ohhhhhh—!!"  

Even with me standing there, Boyan couldn’t suppress his victorious roar and let out a guttural cry.  

The fight had ended, and Yanaka was approaching. She wasn’t swept up in the heat of battle—she simply took in the horrific scene with cold, rational clarity.  

"That… is Boyan?"  

I was smiling faintly. Boyan was intoxicated by his own triumph.  

And Yanaka… she bit her lower lip, her shoulders trembling.  

She was the only one seeing this situation with normal human senses.  

"A person…"  

Her lips quivered.  

Yes. Today, Boyan had committed murder. Among those lying on the ground, two had stopped breathing.  

He had crossed a moral boundary that was nearly insurmountable for a human. And he had done it effortlessly, drunk on instinct. He felt no guilt for taking a life—only the exhilaration of indulging in his innate violence.  

The world is full of contradictions and disharmony. Once again, Luka, you are reminded of this truth.

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